


back to haunt us

by chameleonchanging



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, I barely know anything about university, I have never been to or even seen a law school, I know nothing about the cops, M/M, detective!Wolffe, lawyer!Plo, professor!Plo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24227095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleonchanging/pseuds/chameleonchanging
Summary: “Are you sexually active?” asks the student lawyer.“No, I just lie there,” says Wolffe dryly, to Plo’s point and uproarious laughter. While the students get themselves back under control, Plo pulls out his phone and texts Wolffe under the table.That is a bald-faced lie, he sends. Wolffe glances at his watch and smirks.10 years ago, Plo Koon is working in the DA's office when Iaco Stark breaks out of prison to murder him for sending him to prison in the first place. Detective Wolffe Fett is assigned to keep that from happening by following him everywhere. Neither of them are thrilled with this arrangement, but it only has to last until Stark is back where he belongs.10 years later, Plo's a professor, Wolffe's still at the precinct, and Jango Fett is out of prison with a vendetta against his sons for putting him away. They just can't catch a break.
Relationships: Plo Koon/CC-3636 | Wolffe
Comments: 107
Kudos: 155





	1. Chapter 1

Plo taps the bell on his podium, and the faint din of chattering students fades to silence. “Good evening,” he says. “I won’t bother with wiring myself up today - you’re all familiar with Detective Fett and with the case. If you’ll take your positions, we can get started.” 

He shuffles to the bench and sits. Wolffe, already seated at the stand, gives him a knowing grin as the first student approaches. “Please state your name for the record.”

Wolffe leans forward to his mic and says, “Harvey Dent.” A smattering of snickers runs through the audience. Plo sighs. 

“The deponent is advised to consider that he may share Mr. Dent’s fate before he decides to pursue this course of action,” he says.

“Aww, the court never lets me have any fun,” says Wolffe. Plo narrows his eyes at him.

“One reference to a bat, and I’ll let the bailiff throw you out on your ear,” he says. 

His class is working on depositions, and whenever he needs someone to be mock deposed, he calls Wolffe. Unfortunately, Wolffe’s greatest pleasure in life is making Plo’s life difficult. In the last semester, he’s claimed to be various fictional lawyers, actual serial murderers, and even Plo himself while on the stand, and that isn’t even the worst of his offenses. 

“Are you sexually active?” asks the student lawyer. 

“No, I just lie there,” says Wolffe dryly, to Plo’s point and uproarious laughter. While the students get themselves back under control, Plo pulls out his phone and texts Wolffe under the table.

 _That is a bald-faced lie,_ he sends. Wolffe glances at his watch and smirks.

It’s going to be a long, long class. 

* * *

“So, Counselor, that was fun,” Wolffe says, strolling up to the bench as the rest of the class files out of the room. Plo sighs and rubs his temples.

“Did you really have to make that crack about Skywalker’s IQ?” 

“He asked me how old the 20-year-old was,” Wolffe says, spreading his hands. “What was I supposed to say?”

“I don’t know why I keep inviting you to these things,” says Plo. 

“Because you love me, and more importantly, your students love me,” says Wolffe. He watches Plo stand up, steadying himself on the table, and step down to ground level. He moves slowly in his judge’s robes. “Bad day?” Wolffe asks, watching intently.

“A little. My leg is asleep too,” says Plo. He removes the robes and drapes them over the railing. Wolffe goes to pick up his satchel, then comes back to Plo’s side to offer an arm, which Plo takes. They walk slowly from the room and down the hall. “It’s going to rain.”

“Your leg tells you so, does it?” 

“It does, as it happens,” says Plo. “I hope you brought an umbrella.”

“I wish you brought your cane,” says Wolffe.

“Ah, well. Nobody’s perfect,” says Plo. They reach his office, which he’s left unlocked, to Wolffe’s chronic irritation. He limps to his side of the desk and eases himself into his chair. Wolffe takes the visitor’s seat, dumping Plo’s bag on the table between them while Plo looks for papers. “Not a bad session for the students. My thanks, Detective. I’ll have another set of files for you to look over for next week’s practice.”

“Any time, Professor,” says Wolffe with his toothy grin. “C’mon, let’s get outta here. I want pizza.”

* * *

At home, Plo goes straight to the couch to prop up his leg, and Wolffe heads to the kitchen for drinks. He starts up a pot of tea and sets the drip machine brewing and then joins Plo in the living room with a cup of water and a couple of Tylenol, which Plo accepts gratefully. They each take a slice of pizza from the box and eat while the television plays. Wolffe gets up when the drinks are done, and Plo shifts over so he can lie with his head in Wolffe’s lap when he comes back. Plo snags a bag of M&Ms from the table and holds one up for Wolffe to eat and rolls his eyes when Wolffe sucks on his fingers suggestively too. It’s not going anywhere tonight and both of them know it. 

When the movie’s done, Wolffe picks Plo up in a bridal carry and deposits him in the bedroom. They take turns at using the bathroom, and then they crawl under the covers for the night. Wolffe leans up on an arm after the lights are out to press a kiss to Plo’s forehead. 

“Hey,” he says.

“Hmmm?”

“Happy ten years.” He feels more than sees Plo’s smile. “We beat the odds.”

“We did, didn’t we?” Plo muses. “Happy ten years.”

* * *

* * *

Plo barely has time to set his bag on his desk before he’s summoned to Mace’s office in the morning. 

“Congratulations, you’re getting a protection detail,” Mace announces. 

“I’m what?” Plo asks, squinting at Mace, and then at the only other person in the room. He’s got a detective’s shield on his belt. His face is stern, and he looks as thrilled as Plo is to be there.

“Iaco Stark escaped from prison last night. They found a bunch of letters containing death threats addressed to you in his cell. So, you have a new best friend,” says Mace. “This is Detective Wolffe Fett. He’s going to stick to you like glue until this is resolved.”

“Mace, I have work to do,” Plo says. “I have to be in court in two hours for voir dire on the Yinchorri case, and we’re doing a deposition -”

“I’m not hearing anything that would keep the Detective from going with you,” says Mace. “Plo, I like you. I’d like for you to stay here until I retire. You make this circus just bearable enough that I don’t end up in the defendant’s seat for murdering Jinn. But for that to happen, you can’t be dead, and there’s a very good chance you will be if you don’t let the nice detective stay with you.”

Plo scowls, but he doesn’t protest further. The Detective follows him out of Mace’s office.

* * *

Plo’s desk is covered in case files and post-its, and boxed in by the walls of a cubicle. What little space is not occupied by the desk and chair is taken by a set of file cabinets, also piled high with papers everywhere, and Wolffe is almost positive that if the Fire Marshal were to come by for a look, there would be words had about the way a hundred wires snake back and forth along the floor to an overburdened power outlet in the floor. Plo pushes his way in, jamming himself between the chair and the desk, and looks up.

“Well, Detective, welcome to my humble abode,” he says. “I’m afraid it’s not set up for visitors.”

“I see that,” says Wolffe. He eyes the mess. “Look, neither of us wants to be doing this. I’ll try to keep out of your way, but it’ll be my head if Stark gets to you.”

“When Mace said like glue . . . “ Plo begins, a sinking feeling developing in his stomach.

“We’re going to be roommates,” Wolffe says bluntly, his arms crossed.

“Excellent,” says Plo with as little enthusiasm as he can muster. “Qui-Gon’s office is the next over. You can steal his guest chair.”

“Don’t sound so excited,” Wolffe says as he drags the chair over to the cubicle opening. “The second Stark is back in custody, we both get our lives back.”

“I don’t see what you’re so upset about,” Plo says. “This is your job.” He pulls out a sheath of papers, flipping to his marker to continue reading. 

“It’s not, actually,” says Wolffe. For the first time, Plo looks up to meet his eyes. His irises are so light they could be silver. Wolffe shrugs. “Usually this is an officer’s job. You rate my attention because you’re the DA’s favourite.”

“I see.” Plo goes back to his reading. “My condolences, then, that Mace has disrupted your schedule.” 

Wolffe snorts and settles in to wait. 


	2. Chapter 2

Jury selection is and always will be a pain in the ass. Never mind that most of the potentials are also looking for reasons not to be there, the opposing counsel is an incompetent goat who probably drew his own law degree in crayon - only telling him so would be beneath the dignity of Plo’s office and also the court, so Plo has to hold his tongue. He’s already in a bit of a temper over having to explain - twice - to the Detective that he’s just going to have to wait outside and trust the bailiff to do her job, so when Mr. Gunray begins prattling, he loses his patience.

“So when he went, had you gone, and had she, if she wanted to and were able, for the time being excluding all the restraints on her not to go also, would he have brought you, meaning you and she, with him to the station?” Gunray asks. Plo rubs his temples and stands.

“Objection. That question should be taken out and shot,” he says. “Your Honor, I would like to request a recess for all our benefits but most especially so Mr. Gunray can review standard grammar.”

“Sustained,” Judge Vallorum says. “We’ll break until the afternoon. Mr. Gunray, pull yourself together. Mr. Koon, curb your wit. Adjourned.”

Plo collects his papers and leaves, making a beeline for the convenience store across the street. He’s vaguely aware that Detective Fett is jogging after him but can’t find it in himself to care. He sweeps in and goes right to the over-the-counters section, snagging a travel-sized vial of Advil and bringing it to the cashier with a ten-dollar bill. 

“Things are going that great?” Wolffe asks, appearing by Plo’s shoulder. 

“You’d need pharmaceutical intervention too if you had to listen to Nute Gunray all morning,” Plo grumbles, dry-swallowing a tablet with a grimace. 

“Give me one of those,” Wolffe says conversationally. “I think I’m getting a headache too. My principal seems to not remember that he’s not supposed to go running off without me for fear of getting murdered to death.”

Plo gives him a sour look. “It’s a convenience store in downtown next to a courthouse filled with law enforcement. Iaco Stark isn’t going to attack me here.”

Wolffe rolls his eyes and steals the Advil out of Plo’s hand anyway, though he doesn’t actually take a tablet. He slides the vial into his pocket and leads the way back to the courthouse parking lot. He’d driven them both there in one of the unmarkeds, so he slides into the driver’s seat and waits for Plo to get into the passenger side, still scowling. 

“Where to, Counselor?” he asks, drumming a pattern on the steering wheel. Plo presses his thumbs into his temples. 

“The office, Detective,” Plo says. “I won’t need to be back here until one. You really should just drop me off and go do . . . whatever it is you usually do.”

“This protection detail thing really isn’t clicking with you, is it?” Wolffe asks. “Let me spell it out for you. Stark not in prison equals you stuck with me, because you dead equals me in trouble. Got it?”

“You don’t need to be so condescending,” Plo grumbles, staring out the window. 

“Yeah, well, procedure ain’t so fun when you’re on the other end of it, is it?” Wolffe glances at him. “Your office is constantly after us about it.”

“Because  _ our office _ would like to be able to actually  _ use _ the evidence we get,” says Plo. “We’re understaffed as it is. If we have to retry a case because a conviction gets thrown out on appeal, that’s another three months of work when we’ve already got a backlog.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Wolffe says. “And we got nothing to do but sit around, no backlog of cases waiting for us either.”

“This isn’t getting anywhere, Detective,” Plo says. “We really should just stop talking.”

They spend the rest of the ride in silence.

* * *

Afternoon court isn’t much better, though at least Gunray’s co-counsel is very slightly better at stringing together a coherent sentence. The prospect of another week of this is enough to make Plo regret going to law school. When he gets back to the office, Wolffe in tow, he doesn’t want to think about case law or opening arguments, but Mace needs a briefing so he has to put it together. He shoves the relevant files into his bag and slings it over his shoulder, imagining a hot cup of tea and a soak in his tiny bathtub - and then remembers that he’s going to have a houseguest.

He considers briefly the odds that Wolffe was joking and sighs.

“Do we need to stop by your place for clothes?” he asks, resigning himself to a very unrelaxing evening. 

“I have my go-bag in the car,” Wolffe says. “I’ll drive.”

“Do you need an address?”

“No need, I already know where you live,” says Wolffe. Plo swears under his breath. 

“You people really don’t believe in privacy, do you?” he mutters. “What am I supposed to do with my car? I can’t just leave it here.”

“Which one is it?” Wolffe asks. Plo waves at a 15 year old subcompact. Wolffe can’t stop himself laughing. “It’ll be fine.” 

The drive back to Plo’s apartment takes twice as long as it usually does. Wolffe makes a few detours and o-turns and insists on circling the block so Plo can tell him if anything “looks funny”. Nothing does. They finally park in the spot that had previously housed Plo’s car and trudge up the three flights of stairs to his apartment. He examines the door carefully, steals Plo’s key out of his hand, and insists on going in first to clear the place before letting Plo set his things down on the floor.

The apartment is nearly empty. There’s a folding table in the dining area with a rickety chair to match, and there’s three cushions lined up on the floor in the connected living room. The kitchen counters are bare, the refrigerator stocked with a bottle of ketchup and a carton of eggs, and the only luxury item appears to be an electric kettle plugged in by the stove, which may or may not have ever been used. Wolffe certainly wouldn’t swear to it. He’s also not convinced that the place hasn’t been burgled, but Plo is utterly unconcerned and starts heating water.

Wolffe vanishes down the hall to explore, and Plo rummages through the cupboard for his stash of tea. There’s nothing to see; he’s got a mattress on the ground in his bedroom, a bathroom with exactly one towel in it, and a closet with enough clothing that he only has to do laundry once a week. The only space with anything of note is his home office, which houses a collection of legal texts and notebooks that might be relevant to criminal law, a sturdy desk set to work at, and a jumbo-sized paper shredder. He’s only here to sleep and change. There isn’t time for anything else. 

“Please tell me this is just a crash pad and you have a fancy mansion somewhere on a beach,” Wolffe says, reappearing from the back. 

“I’m a public servant,” Plo says. “With student loans.” 

“Do you at least have internet?” Wolffe asks. 

“Mobile hotspot,” Plo says. The kettle clicks off. He pours water into his mug and watches the leaves unfurl.

“Ho-ly shit, you’re serious,” Wolffe says. He leans on the counter. Plo stares at him. He stares back. “All right, what’s for dinner?”

“What dinner?” Plo asks.

“Fucking hell.”

* * *

Wolffe ends up dragging them both out to the nearest drive-through for food. When they get back, Plo insists Wolffe take the chair and settles himself on a cushion, picking absently at his box of fries while he reviews his files. He loses track of time; when he looks up again, his tea is gone and Wolffe is waving a hand in front of his face to get his attention. 

“Hey, where can I crash?” Wolffe asks. He’s got his bag in hand. Plo wrinkles his forehead. 

“You can have the bed. I’ll be working for a while longer,” he says, trying to get back to drafting his arguments. 

“Uh, no, we don’t have that kind of relationship,” says Wolffe. Plo supposes other people might find sleeping in someone else’s bed 12 hours after meeting them for the first time a little awkward. He shrugs.

“I’ll move, and you can sleep here,” he offers. “You can just - use the bathroom. I’ll be a minute clearing up.”

Wolffe disappears again, and Plo begins to shuffle his papers into something resembling order, inserting them between pages of his notebook. His pen gets tucked between his teeth as he works, and finally he wanders into the bedroom, still reading as he seats himself on the mattress and begins to spread his things out. 

“All yours,” Wolffe says gruffly. Plo looks up. The Detective has changed into a tee and workout shorts. 

“Thanks,” Plo says. “Sleep well, Detective.”

“You too,” says Wolffe, and leaves. 


	3. Chapter 3

Wolffe leaves Plo sleeping in their bed and arrives at the precinct early. It’s quieter in the bullpen before the officers get in, and he focuses better when it’s just him, a few other early birds, and the mailwoman dropping off letters and packages at desks. 

He starts a fresh pot because even after all this time Sinker hasn’t figured out that whoever finishes the pot makes the next one. As the water percolates through what may be the shittiest coffee machine on the planet, Wolffe checks his notifications. There’s a text from Plo thanking him for the perfectly timed cup of tea with a photo of Princess curled up on the pillow, a few emails he’d rather deal with never but will have to settle for later instead, and one glaring reminder. 

Dear old dad is getting out of prison. 

Jango had not been anyone’s idea of an upstanding parent. He was absent more often than he was present when Wolffe and Cody were growing up, so much so that they’d eventually been put into the foster care system, and then when they’d joined the force as adults it became clear why. He was wanted in four jurisdictions for various offenses from assault and arson to kidnapping and murder-for-hire. If someone would pay him to break the law, he’d do it. 

Being morally solvent people, Wolffe and Cody had refused to join him on his latest hit when he’d invited them, and had in fact set him up to be arrested. They hadn’t seen him since. They hadn’t even attended his trial. If they never heard from him again, it would be too soon. 

Wolffe doesn’t have high hopes for that scenario. It’s just a question of scale - is the fallout going to cover a block or the country?

His phone rings. It’s Cody. Wolffe picks up, pins the mobile to his ear with his shoulder. “Hey,” he says, pouring himself a mug of coffee.

“Today’s the day,” Cody says. He doesn’t sound enthusiastic.

“Yeah,” says Wolffe. “I saw.”

“Just - be careful, okay?” Cody blows a puff of air. “You know what he’s like. Keep an eye out.”

“I know,” says Wolffe. “You too.” He hangs up and heads back to the bullpen. 

“Hey, Wolffe! You gotta package here,” Comet calls.

“Who’s it from?” Wolffe asks offhandedly, ambling over. He’s not on the clock for a few more minutes. 

“Plo,” Comet says. Wolffe freezes. Plo knows not to send him things at the office. He narrows his eyes. 

“Everyone clear the pen! Now!” he shouts. “Comet, call the bomb guys to have a look, and see if we can figure out where it came from.” 

In the chaos, somebody bumps a table, and the package begins wobbling on the edge of Wolffe’s desk. Wolffe’s eyes widen as it begins to fall. “Cover!” he orders, curling himself into a ball, and then there’s a loud bang as the package explodes, showering them all with scraps of burning newspaper. Wolffe snags one out of the air.

It’s a picture of him and Plo.

* * *

“What happened?” Plo asks, walking as quickly as he can towards Wolffe once he’s allowed past the barricade outside the precinct. He throws his arms around Wolffe’s shoulders, presses a kiss to Wolffe’s cheek, pats him down for injuries. 

“I’m fine,” Wolffe says. He’s already been checked over and cleared by the paramedics. He was far enough from the blast that the worst he got was ringing ears and a shower of dust. Comet caught a little shrapnel to the arm and leg, but he’s been patched up too. He’s already called Cody to warn him, and the bomb squad is inside picking up evidence. 

“That isn’t what I asked,” Plo says. 

“Of all the times to be a pedant, Counselor,” Wolffe jokes half-heartedly. He already knows his distraction tactic is a failure. He’s rolling his eyes even before Plo can scowl at him.”Small incident with a package in the bullpen. They’re taking a look now. Everyone’s fine, Comet just got a few cuts.”

“A package. As in bomb,” Plo says flatly. 

“You’re not supposed to know that,” Wolffe chides. He guides Plo to the safe zone they’ve set up to wait in.

“Mace told me,” Plo says. He leans against the wall under the folding tent. “And really, Wolffe, you’re all milling about out here covered in dust. It was an explosive or an aerosol, and the state of your shirt tells me which was more likely.” He brushes a few specks of ceiling that had been shaken loose from Wolffe’s shoulders.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” Wolffe says. He takes up a position next to Plo, shielding him from the street. “We’re gonna have to talk about this tonight, but for now you gotta be real careful. The package was addressed to me from you, and it was filled with newspaper articles about the two of us.” He watches the lines form by Plo’s eyes, the way he tenses, pressing his lips together, ducking his head down. “Security footage shows someone who knows the security layout brought it in and put it with the mail. You’ve already been cleared - it was a woman - and the handwriting we saw on the tape wasn’t a match for yours anyway.”

Plo gives him a dry look and raises a hand. It shakes in the air. He drops it. “Among other things, I imagine.”

“I wasn’t gonna say it,” says Wolffe, raising his hands in surrender. “I gotta get back to work. Just - be careful, okay? Anyone hanging around or following you, mail you aren’t expecting, phone calls from weird numbers, you let me know about it, okay?”

“I will,” says Plo. “You be careful too.”

“I’ll get Sinker to take you home,” says Wolffe. “We don’t know much about who’s behind this. I don’t think it’ll be like last time, but -”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it,” says Plo. He waves at Sinker. “Detective, good to see you again.”

“Mr. Koon,” Sinker returns. “I’ll let you know when we get there,” he says, and leads Plo away.

* * *

The rest of the day is a mix of cleaning and trying to piece together enough information on a lead on their deliverywoman. The entire precinct is on edge by shift change, and when Wolffe gets home he just wants to sleep for a week until this entire mess is over with. But Plo is meditating in the living room on his cushions, a sure sign that he’s worried, and Wolffe knows they have a long night ahead of them. 

“Thanks for waiting,” he says once he’s showered and changed out of his work clothes. Plo nudges a plate of frozen berries towards him. Very worried, then. He doesn’t usually remember to share. “I guess you have some questions.”

“That’s a very specific threat,” Plo says. “You and me. We’re not secret, but we’re reasonably private. Who . . ?”

Wolffe winces. “I told you about Jango. He’s just been released from prison. Right now, he’s my top bet.” 

“He’s that vindictive?” Plo asks. He takes Wolffe’s hand, twists their fingers together. “Is Cody all right?” 

“He’s fine. Jango . . . has a different relationship with him,” says Wolffe. “Back then -” 

He swallows heavily. Even now, it’s hard to talk about. Plo shifts himself closer and tugs Wolffe’s arms over his shoulders, and Wolffe squeezes as hard as he thinks he can get away with. “Cody’s older. Technically. But that was enough for Jango. When we did the sting, he didn’t care if I went with him or not. But Cody -” Plo squeezes back, and Wolffe grounds himself in the even pressure. “He really wanted Cody to join him. He really, really wanted Cody. I was just the spare.

“But you know what Cody’s like. He wasn’t gonna go with Jango on principle, but especially not if Jango didn’t want me too. I’d already made my position clear. Jango was furious. Said one day Cody would change his mind and he’d make sure of it. So now . . .”

“You think it’s him,” Plo says. He rests his head against Wolffe’s neck. He smells like his new shampoo, and it throws Wolffe for a loop. He’s never managed to break Plo of the habit of picking the least expensive option at the store. It means there’s an ephemerality to him. He’s never quite the same, and when things are changing so much, Wolffe wishes at least one thing wouldn’t. 

He lets Plo hold his hand and kiss his cheek and absently returns the gestures, but his mind is far away. There’s little that he would put past Jango. The entire day, he’s been mulling it over in his head - what he can possibly do to keep Jango out of their lives, away from Plo and Cody, and there’s nothing. They’re already under threat. It’s too late to uninvolve them, and so even if he walks away right now, breaks things off with Plo so publicly that aliens from another galaxy would know about it, it wouldn’t make a difference, however he wishes it might. He’d just be breaking Plo’s heart for nothing, and if the worst were to happen - 

Well. Even before he’d fallen in love with the man, the thought that Plo might die angry with him had been painful. Now it’s an impossibility. He knows he doesn’t have it in him to inflict that kind of pain. 

“If I bought you new shampoo, would you use it?” he mumbles. The last bottle had been a gift from Mace, white tea that mixed with the smell of whatever Plo drank. It wasn’t completely distinctive, but it was better than the generic shit he was using now.

“Of course,” Plo says, confused, his brow wrinkling. “Why?”

“Just feel like spoiling you,” Wolffe says, planting a kiss in Plo’s hair, as if it might be the last time he ever did.


	4. Chapter 4

When Plo wakes up at his usual hour, it’s still dark out. He rubs at his eyes, pushes his blanket off, and sits up. It’s quiet enough that for a moment, he forgets that someone is waiting for him outside. 

Briefly, he considers sneaking out. The Detective can’t possibly be serious about accompanying him everywhere, possibly for weeks. He even pulls on his clothes and nudges the door open, sticking his head out to check the coast is clear - and it isn’t. Not only is the Detective awake, he’s in the middle of a set of push-ups. His back is fantastically well-defined, his elbows bending to a perfect 90 degrees, and even in the dim light of the cell phone flashlight strapped to a gallon of water that Wolffe has somehow materialized overnight, it’s obvious that physical prowess is something Wolffe devotes a significant amount of time towards. 

“Morning,” Wolffe grunts, looking up at Plo briefly. 

“Good morning,” Plo says, not quite sure what else to say. Wolffe switches to sit-ups. Plo slips past him to the kitchen and starts his tea. 

“Don’t suppose you have coffee somewhere,” Wolffe says between breaths.

“Ah, no,” says Plo. “We can stop on the way, if you like.”

“Please,” says Wolffe. 

“And I suppose we can go for groceries after work,” says Plo. “More voir dire today, I’m afraid.”

“Great,” says Wolffe. He does not sound like he thinks jury selection is great. Possibly it might have to do with his physical exertion, but Plo suspects in this regard Wolffe is very average. Plo starts working at the counter, leafing through the pages of his handwritten notes as Wolffe finishes up, disappearing into the bathroom. The shower starts running, and when Plo’s alarm goes off to remind him he’s due at he office, Wolffe is loitering in the living room again, browsing on his phone, dressed in a very slightly wrinkled new shirt and trousers. 

They pile into the car and swing by a coffee shop, silent except for Plo declining another drink, and then on to the office for the hour or so before Plo is due in court. Wolffe isn’t meant to be privy to the details of every case the DA is in the middle of, so he’s relegated to standing outside in the hall while the lawyers talk. The moment the door is closed, Wolffe has his phone out to text.

> 555-3636: _cody im not gonna make it through this assignment h e l p_
> 
> 555-2224: _The hell, Wolffe, what are you moaning about?_
> 
> 555-3636: _the ada im babysitting?_
> 
> 555-2224: _What about him?_
> 
> 555-3636: _he is the weirdest bastard ive ever met_
> 
> 555-3636: _his apartment is basically empty. actually empty. theres no furniture. theres no food_
> 
> 555-2224: _You’re keeping an eye on him, nobody said he was going to feed you._
> 
> 555-3636: _no i mean there’s no food. at all. hes got tea eggs and ketchup. thats it_
> 
> 555-3636: _and if i sleep on the ground any more im gonna have permanent back problems for the love of god can you bring an airbed or something_
> 
> 555-2224: _I’m not a delivery service. He seriously doesn’t have a couch?_
> 
> 555-3636: _you know those chair cushions that are basically an ass-sized yoga mat covered in fabric? thats his couch_

The door opens and Mace Windu steps out with Plo. “Detective Fett,” Windu says.

“Sir,” Wolffe answers, shoving his phone back into his pocket. The DA walks on, and Plo waits for Wolffe to push off the wall. “So, where to?”

“Back to court,” says Plo. “Mace has arranged for you to be allowed inside today.” His lips twitch, as if he wants to scowl. “Not, I imagine, that it will be any more entertaining for you.”

“Well, it can’t be worse than standing outside, can it?” Wolffe reasons.

* * *

It is absolutely worse than standing outside. 

Wolffe thought jury duty was annoying as part of the jury pool. It’s nearly unbearably dull as a passive spectator, aside from a few moments of accidental hilarity. He’s allowed to sit in the front row just behind Plo’s table as a concession to his purpose for being there, but he still has to sit and look respectful while people talk about things that have nothing to do with him in particular. It’s even worse than desk duty, since at least he can play Angry Birds on his phone at his desk. Somehow he doesn’t think Judge Vallorum would appreciate the dulcet tones of vengeful cardinals, and without sound, what’s the point?

He takes the time to study Plo in his natural habitat. He keeps the same calm, measured tones that he uses outside, though his expressions adjust from the neutral mask he adopts when dealing with Wolffe. His tongue is somewhat duller, though even with their short acquaintance Wolffe can tell when he’s got some sarcastic retort in mind. 

It is truly a wonder the human race hasn’t died out, with some of the shining examples of intelligence on display, Wolffe reflects. He almost feels sorry for Plo. 

“Just for my own curiosity - is there some special selection method for jury duty I don’t know about?” he asks as he drives them to the store at the end of the day. Plo had offered to take the wheel; Wolffe refused on the grounds he suspected Plo was going to toe the speed limit to blow off steam. “For maximum entertainment on the stand?”

“You mean the candidate who literally made all his responses ‘oral’?” Plo mutters darkly, clenching and unclenching his hands. He’s been complaining of a headache since lunch. “Or the one who said his thirty-seven or thirty-eight year old son lived with him forty-five years?” 

“I was thinking about the one who complimented you on your honesty,” says Wolffe. Plo declines to answer, staring out the window at the street signs glowing in trails as they pass by. 

“What a gentleman,” Plo says. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“Maybe you’d be less grouchy if your blood sugar wasn’t low all the time,” says Wolffe. He parks in the middle of the lot and leads the way into the grocery. He snags a cart and goes for the produce section while Plo trails along. His staples get collected in short order, and since Plo seems generally indifferent to food even when he’s the one paying for it, they leave quickly. 

Plo squints as they approach the car. “Who is -”

“Oh, that’s Cody,” Wolffe says, throwing a careless wave.

“You’re a twin,” says Plo.

“Yep,” says Wolffe. “He’s just dropping some stuff off for me. Hey, bro.”

“Wolffe,” says Cody. “Mr. Koon.” He jabs a thumb at his trunk. “Brought your shit for you, jackass.”

“Thanks,” says Wolffe. Between the three of them, everything is loaded into the car in short order, and Cody takes off. Plo looks at the collection of boxes in the trunk. 

“Moving yourself in, I see,” he says.

“I’m not as young as I used to be,” says Wolffe. “And you have _literally nothing_ in your apartment.”

“I don’t think that words means what you think it means,” says Plo.

“Don’t be a pedant, Counselor,” says Wolffe. 

Plo does, apparently, have two pots left over by the previous tenant stashed in the back of a disused cabinet, and he seems more than capable of following directions, so Wolffe leaves him to cook dinner while he inflates the mattress and connects some chargers to the wall for his phone and work computer, which gives him access to case files and therefore makes him productive even while stuck on guard duty. At the least there’s cold cases he can go back to, and consults from the rest of the department. 

“Dinner,” says Plo, coming into the living room, where Wolffe is sat on the airbed. Wolffe looks up and catches the faintest twitch at the edge of Plo’s eye at the sight of all the cables and items scattered around on the floor.

“There is such a thing as minimalism, and it doesn’t look like post-burglary chic,” says Wolffe, setting aside his laptop. 

“I take it you’ve never heard of cable management,” says Plo. Wolffe grins. 

Plo’s rendition of pasta with tomato sauce is perfectly serviceable. He perches on his chair on one end of the table and Wolffe sits on the slightly more sturdy one he brought, and both of them eat in awkward silence off the paper plates until Wolffe decides enough is enough while dumping preshredded Parmesan on his food.

“So why the DA’s office?” he asks. “You’re old enough you probably could’ve made partner somewhere. At the very least have a bigger cubicle.”

“Maybe this is a second career,” says Plo.

“Sure, but your boss seems to like you an awful lot for you to be new man at the office,” says Wolffe. “Also, I read your file.”

Plo huffs. “So if you already know my life story, why ask?” 

“File tells me what happened,” says Wolffe. “Not why.”

“I’m a very private person,” says Plo. “Why are you a Detective?”

“I had something to prove,” says Wolffe with a shrug. “Some people live up to their parents’ legacies. Other people have to live them down.” He’s pretty sure that’s enough information for Plo to put things together for himself. Just about everyone who was in law enforcement circles around that time knows something. He watches the sneaking suspicion settle into Plo’s eyes. “Figured it out, did you?”

“It was slightly before I graduated,” Plo admits after a moment. “But there was enough hearsay going around. I’m sorry that happened.” 

“Yeah, well.” Wolffe shoves a forkful of noodles into his mouth to avoid having to find something else to say, and then shakes his head. Damn lawyers and their word trickery. 

Or maybe Plo’s just easy to talk to. He’s very unassuming. Plo studies him, and then drops his gaze. 

“Iaco Stark was responsible for the failed evacuation of two-thirds of the city of Mount Avos, and afterwards he extorted the survivors for everything they were worth in the days before help could arrive with food and shelter. He had no motive for any of it aside from his own personal gain. People like him can’t be allowed to run unchecked,” Plo says. He laces his fingers together. “The system isn’t perfect, Detective, I’m all too aware of that. But Mace Windu has a good head on his shoulders, and as an office we’re trying our best to do good with our limited options. That’s why I’ve stayed.” He jabs his chopsticks into his food, spins them to collect another bite. He doesn’t talk with his mouth full, Wolffe’s noticed, so it’s a delay tactic as much as anything else, but he appreciates that for a _very private person_ saying so much is probably like getting a root canal.

“I think,” he says, “you should think about getting a microwave. You’re going to have leftovers if you don’t eat more. No wonder you look like a twig.” He leans back on two chair legs.

“Very subtle, Detective,” says Plo, but he goes along with it. 

* * *

That night, Wolffe tosses and turns instead of sleeping. In the wee hours of the morning, he gives up with a sigh, swinging his legs over the side of his airbed. It’s hardly the first time he’s had insomnia during a case, but this feels different. He balls up the sheet he was using for covers and tosses it to the foot of the mattress, stands up and stretches. 

Something isn’t right. He can’t put his finger on it, but unease settles in his gut as he paces back and forth across the narrow room. It’s quiet in the apartment, the door to Plo’s room still open, the man himself asleep, curled into a tiny ball on his side under his blanket when Wolffe peeks in to assure himself he’s still there. A car light flashes through the blinds. Wolffe grits his teeth and makes himself sit again. 

A car light flashes through the blinds. Wolffe goes over to look. 

The window shatters as the first brick comes through. If not for the blinds, Wolffe would have gotten a face full of glass. He stumbles backwards, scrambles for the bedroom as another window breaks. Plo wakes when Wolffe drags him out of bed to flip the mattress on its side as cover, blurry-eyed and confused. In the living room, there’s a flicker of light. Fire. 

“Is there a back exit?” Wolffe demands, crouched beside Plo.

“Fire escape, bathroom window,” says Plo. He shivers. “You’re hurt.” He extends a hand towards Wolffe’s face, like he can’t help himself. Wolffe bats his hand away.

“We can talk about that later,” Wolffe growls. “Get in the closet and call the cops.” He shoves his phone into Plo’s hands and goes back to dragging the mattress into position.

“You _are_ the cops,” Plo mumbles, fumbling with the phone. 

“More cops,” Wolffe snaps. “Stay on the line with them. I’m going to go put out some fires. Stay here.”

“I haven’t been in the closet in years,” says Plo, even as he complies.

“Yeah, well, neither have I, but right now it’s the clothes storage or a Molotov to the face,” says Wolffe. He smothers one carpet fire before it can get to his change of clothes and dumps water over a second. He collects his weapon before returning to Plo. 

“Is that really necessary?” Plo asks, eyeing the gun warily.

“Oh my god,” says Wolffe. “How long until backup gets here? Hey! _How long?!_ ”

Plo shakes his head. He’s got a dazed look about him. He’s trying to fight it, but he’s losing. Wolffe snatches the phone back. “-five minutes, sir, just stay under cover until help arrives-” the dispatcher says. Wolffe grits his teeth. There’s more glass raining down from the frames. The neighbors are starting to notice the noise. Lights start to turn on. Another fire catches in the bedroom. 

And then in the distance, the sound of sirens. 


	5. Chapter 5

Neither of them have to be at work the next morning, and Wolffe takes full advantage of the opportunity to ply Plo with kisses and cuddles and a lazy fuck before breakfast. They sit on the balcony afterwards, a drink in each of their hands while the sun rises. Plo’s got himself turned on his side on the chair, his good leg curled under him, his newest book half propped against the backrest, light glinting off the library plastic. He’s still and calm, a cool winter’s day, and he hums an aimless tune that cracks in and out of existence as he reads. 

“What are you thinking of?” he asks without looking up. In his chair, Wolffe has been staring at the spinning fan overhead. 

“Nothing much,” says Wolffe. “Just shit. The usual.”

“I didn’t think I was that poor of a lay,” says Plo, and Wolffe nearly chokes on his own tongue. He looks at Plo, still coughing and wheezing, and is met with a completely straight face with mischievous eyes. 

“No one ever believes me when I tell them you’re the devil incarnate,” he complains after he’s downed a gulp of coffee. 

“Lies and slander,” says Plo. “I’ll see you in court.” He flashes a warm smile at Wolffe. 

“Yeah, for attempted murder,” Wolffe says dryly. “Should I be expecting another attempt?”

“What were you thinking about?” Plo prompts again. He sets his book down across his chest. The light reflects and lands on his throat, a thin blade that highlights the scars and draws Wolffe’s attention. 

He winces and looks away. “You,” he says quietly. 

“What a flattering description of me you’ve painted,” Plo says.

“I’m always thinking about you,” says Wolffe. “How lucky I am to have you. How lucky I am you wanted me back.”

“I love you too, Wolffe,” says Plo, all trace of dry humor gone, leaving only the steady sureness that Wolffe has depended on for a decade. “You’ve been the best part of my life for a very long time.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you. If I lost you. I couldn’t -” Wolffe clenches his jaw. “I’m so scared, Plo.”

“Oh, Wolffe, my dear,” Plo says, reaching a hand towards him. Wolffe tumbles out of his chair and shuffles over to him, climbing into the chair with him, the frame creaking under their combined weight. He buries his nose in Plo’s neck, clinging to his partner, barely aware of Plo’s hand carding through his hair or his arm around Wolffe’s back. He curls his fingers into the front of Plo’s shirt, still a goddamn button-up when he’s got nothing to do but lie around, and he doesn’t care if he ruins it or if Plo makes him iron out all the creases and sit there sewing each goddamn button back in place, not if Plo’s there to make him do it. There’s no one else for him. There never will be. He knows it. 

And Plo somehow always knows all the words that get tangled in Wolffe’s throat, so he holds Wolffe while he cries, breathing steadily for them both. 

* * *

In the afternoon, Plo is packing his bag for class, and Wolffe is hovering over him, handing him papers and files. Plo, fortunately, is more attentive to his task, and sorts out the ones he needs from the ones that would just be useless weight. When he’s finished, he looks up at Wolffe, who is wringing his hands nervously, tense as if he’s holding himself back.

Plo studies him. “Would you like to sit in today? We’re discussing case law.” 

Wolffe hesitates but shakes his head. “I shouldn’t.” He must look  _ really _ bad if Plo’s offering to let him shadow. “I can drop you off?”

“Sure,” says Plo. He slings his bag over his shoulder. Wolffe follows him down to the car. On the drive over to the university, he keeps Plo’s hand tucked in his own, sneaking glances at him every time they’re stopped. They arrive at the lecture hall, students shuffling in and out of its doors, the odd professor mixed in with chattering undergrads and perennially exhausted postdocs, and then Plo leans in close to press their lips together. When he pulls back, Wolffe is a tiny bit dazed. Plo does that to him.

“Your students are going to find out,” he mumbles, fighting down the flush in his cheeks.

“Let them,” says Plo. “I’m starting to wonder if it’ll take a billboard before they figure it out. I despair for the future of the profession.”

Wolffe chuckles. “They have been slow on the uptake. Same time as usual?”

“Earlier,” says Plo. “I don’t have office hours today.”

He gives Wolffe another peck and bids him good day, and makes his way up the steps. There’s a half hour left before his class, which gives him time to check his mail and revise his slides for next week. As the students begin to trickle in, he sets up his microphone, adjusting the volume so the students in the back can hear him, and once the clock hits the hour, he launches into an overview of the legal system and its convoluted history. Lower level classes are the least fun to teach between the number of students and the relative paucity of actually interested persons in the audience. He looks up from advancing his slide and half the back row are on their phones, which he’s come to expect. So long as they take their exams, he doesn’t particularly care; he himself hadn’t been a fan of the biological sciences when he’d been in school. But a few new faces catch his eye near the exit. 

This late in the semester, all the students who have dropped have already done so, and most of the ones who have decided to self study have gotten set in their schedules. He’s never seen that man before in his life, or his companion. Plo scans across the rows. There’s a woman seated on the other end of the hall, also unfamiliar. She smiles at him when their eyes meet. It’s decidedly unfriendly and full of sharp teeth. 

He stopped believing in coincidence around the time he met Wolffe. Paranoia, he’s learned, isn’t paranoia when someone really is out to get you. He slides his hand into his pocket and wakes up his phone, sending off a request for an urgent phone call. In seconds, his ringtone sounds through the lecture hall and he sighs, glances at the ID, and makes his excuses to step out. 

“Plo? What’s going on?” Kit asks, his voice a little tinny across the line. 

“Just needed an excuse,” Plo says. “Thank you.”

“I thought you were seeing that cop,” says Kit.

“Wolffe and I are very happy together,” says Plo for the hundredth time. 

“So not a bar trip gone wrong,” says Kit, sounding disappointed. 

“Kit, it’s mid-afternoon,” says Plo. “Why would I be at a bar?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“It is?” Kit pauses, probably doing some time zone maths in his head. “Oh. I guess it is. It’s five o’clock somewhere!”

“I need to get back to class,” says Plo. Now that he’s made a little space for himself, it’s easier for him to think. It’s an open campus. People audit classes all the time. He’s an adult, and if he called for help every time he didn’t recognize somebody, he’d need a direct line to dispatch. And Wolffe - 

“Hey, wait!” says Kit before Plo can hang up. “Do I need to be worried? Should I call your cop?”

“No,” Plo decides, thinking of how afraid Wolffe had been in the morning, and how afraid he would be if Plo worried him now. “I’m probably just jumping at shadows. Maybe if you don’t hear from me by tonight. Talk to you later, Kit. Thanks again.”

He steps back into the room and scans the rows. All the interlopers are gone. He tells himself there’s nothing to worry about. He almost believes it. 


	6. Chapter 6

Bathed in red and blue light, Plo seems alien. He sits on the curb, wrapped in a foil blanket, staring at his knees while officers move around him, the meagre effects of his life on display for everyone to see. He hasn’t said a word since help arrived. Wolffe had held him down until the scene was cleared before letting go of his neck, and by then he’d already withdrawn. He’d stumbled out of the apartment, guided by the shoulder, and once the EMTs had checked him over sat down and not moved. 

Wolffe doesn’t know enough about him to say if he’s okay or not, but now that he’s given report and there’s nothing else to do, he goes over and leans against the railing. Plo doesn’t seem to know he’s there.

“How are you?” he asks, watching out of the corner of his eye. Plo blinks and looks up. 

“Hmm?”

“How are you?” 

“I’m fine,” says Plo. He starts reaching for Wolffe’s face again, where a bit of glass had scraped his cheek open. The EMTs had flushed it out with saline and given him a band-aid. “You’re hurt.”

“You said that before,” says Wolffe, catching his hand and tucking it back inside the foil. He’s seeming less fine by the moment. “You sure you’re fine? Need to get another look-over?”

“I’m fine,” Plo repeats. “I suppose I can’t stay here anymore.”

Any other time, Wolffe would say _gee, you think?_ but it seems like kicking a man while he’s down now. He settles for, “I suppose not.” 

“I’m sorry,” says Plo. When he looks up at Wolffe, the flashing lights reflect in his irises, and he seems unreal. “Not for taking the case. I’d do that again. But I’m sorry that you’ve been dragged into this, and that you got hurt.”

“Don’t be sorry,” says Wolffe. “You did your job. Now I’m doing mine.” He offers a hand to Plo and pulls him up. “We can find a hotel for the night, or I can lend you a sofa if you don’t mind listening to Cody snore. We’ll figure out our next steps in the morning.” 

Plo shrugs, his eyes fixed to the ground. Wolffe sighs and guides him to a squad car, opening the passenger door for him and tucking the blanket around him before closing the door. “Sinker!”

One of the officers looks up and jogs over. “Yeah, boss, what’s up?” 

“If the evidence guys have cleared any of it, could you grab my bag and laptop and a change of clothes for the counselor?” Wolffe glances through the cruiser window. Plo’s still. “I don’t want to leave him here while he’s -” He wobbles his hand in the air. 

Sinker peers through the window. “Hey, is he okay? He looks weird.” 

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” Wolffe says dryly. “He can’t help that. And his apartment just got set on fire.”

Sinker puts up his hands in surrender. “Yeah, I know, I’d look weird too if somebody threw bricks through my window in the middle of the night. Just - look, you know what Boost was like. He seems like the kinda guy to lie about being fine until it bites him in the ass.”

Wolffe snorts. “Bag. Clothes. I’ll watch him.”

Sinker takes off, leaving Wolffe in the cool night air. He looks back at Plo. Still motionless. He sighs and taps on the window, opens the door, crouches to bring them eye-to-eye.

“How’re you doing now?” he asks. Plo starts, blinks, looks at him with a wrinkled brow.

“I’m fine. You’re hurt,” he says, reaching for Wolffe again. 

“Nope,” Wolffe says. “You’re not fine.”

“He’s had a bit of a shock,” says one of the nearby medics, whose name badge reads Allie. She’s inputting data on a monitor resting on the stretcher. “Exciting night?”

“You could say that,” says Wolffe. “What’s wrong with him?”

“It looks like he’s processing,” says Allie. “We examined him - no head trauma, no injuries reported or that we could find. He doesn’t want to go to a hospital, and I’m not going to make him. Everyone doesn’t deal with excitement the same way. You and me take it in stride. It messes with some people more.” She shrugs.

Wolffe scowls. “Very helpful.”

“People aren’t machines, buddy,” says Allie. “Take it or leave it, but it’s not going to change the boat you’re in. He needs time and a safe place to process.” She turns her attention to her partner. Wolffe looks back at Plo and sighs. 

“Well, Counselor, where are we going?” he asks. He’s not surprised when he doesn’t get an answer and makes an executive decision. Sinker returns with a few toasty-smelling well-dusted bags, Wolffe dumps them in the trunk, and then he slides into the driver’s seat, texts Cody to _put on ur pants were having a guest_ , and drives home. He herds Plo indoors and pushes him down on the couch before going back out for their things. 

When he comes back inside, Plo has fallen over sideways, his head against the armrest, his legs still more suited for sitting. It’s a very uncomfortable-looking position, but he’s asleep, half-curled into himself. He looks young and afraid, and Wolffe can’t help but feel sorry for him. A previously unheard from well of sympathy for the man rises in his chest. 

“The hell, Wolffe,” Cody mutters, coming out of his room, rubbing his eyes. Wolffe shushes him and pulls Plo’s legs into a less contorted position. He fishes out a blanket from the linen closet and drapes it over Plo’s form. At the last moment, he gives in to the urge to tuck it under Plo’s chin. 

* * *

“I’m not like you,” Plo says in the morning at breakfast. He’s been barred from the office. He cradles his mug of tea - from a bag of unknown age, the horror - stirring with a spoon too large for the cup. “I don’t - There are _rules_ in court. I can stand in front of a judge and argue all day if I have to. That’s how I fight.”

“Works when everyone’s being civilized,” says Wolffe. 

“I don’t like violence,” says Plo, and then he goes quiet again. “It scares me.”

Wolffe shrugs. Some people, when faced with a weapon and the option to fight or give in, couldn’t help but take the latter option. That was why people like him existed: to fight in their places and win. He gives the skillet another shake to loosen up the bacon and cracks another round of eggs in. “Nothing wrong with that,” he says. He glances over at the table. Plo’s food has been meticulously carved into bite-sized bits and rearranged, but Wolffe is almost positive he could reassemble the pieces with a little effort. The tea, at least, is steadily disappearing. 

His protective urge hasn’t worn off, to his surprise. Awake Plo is just irritating enough to quash the caring instinct. Unfortunately, recent proof that there’s an actual person underneath the dry lawyerly snark seems to have done in the suppressive effect. He slides an overeasy egg onto Plo’s plate with more bacon. “Eat,” he says. “It’s good for you.”

“I’m not hungry,” says Plo, meeting Wolffe’s eyes for the first time since their chat the night before. 

“Too bad,” says Wolffe. He reaches for a sense of normalcy. Sarcasm. Sarcasm fixes everything. “Gee, don’t choke. It’s not like we’re going to run out.” 

Plo ducks his head again and stabs a piece of bacon with his fork. Wolffe watches him take a small bite and slides into the seat across from him with his own food and tucks in. They eat in silence for a while before Cody comes out, making a beeline for the coffee machine and downing two cups straight before acknowledging them.

“Morning,” he mumbles. “Wasn’t sure last night actually happened or if I dreamed it up.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” Wolffe says past a mouthful of toast and egg.

“Piss off,” says Cody. “Excuse my language, Counselor.”

“Oh, so you _do_ have manners,” Wolffe says at the same time Plo mumbles, “No offense taken.” Wolffe rolls his eyes. “Second shift?” he asks between bites.

Cody _hmm_ s and slides into the seat between them. Plo hunches over further. Wolffe glances at him and pretends not to notice. 

“You, uh, doing anything later?” he asks, grasping for a sense of normalcy. A fork clatters to the table, and Plo scoots himself back, making his excuses and disappearing into the bathroom. The door closes behind him. Not a slam, but certainly more carelessly than usual.

“What the fuck are you doing, Wolffe?” Cody asks. He looks distinctly unimpressed. 

“What do you mean, what am I doing?” Wolffe says. “I’m having breakfast.”

“Don’t be stupid,” says Cody. “He’s your assignment, and an ADA. You have to work together in the morning.”

“He’s just had his home shot up,” says Wolffe. “He doesn’t need stress.”

“No, he doesn’t,” says Cody. 

Plo comes back to the table as fidgety as before. They finish their meal in silence. 


	7. Chapter 7

Kit is a snitch. For all he professes to be an excellent confidante, he will, at the drop of a hat, rat anybody out at the first opportunity when he thinks it’s for the greater good, and his moral compass is a finely-tuned work of art. Not ten minutes after Plo gets off the phone, Wolffe is lurking in the back of the lecture hall wearing an expression that is a cross between absolute terror and sheer fucking rage. It’s an expression that Plo has rarely had cause to see, and never directed at himself. 

As the students trickle out at the end of class, Wolffe prowls up the aisle. The sounds of radio chatter filter in from the open doors. Plo closes his eyes, breathes, and switches off his mic.

“You brought the entire precinct?” he asks, meeting Wolffe’s gaze evenly. 

“Of course I did,” Wolffe snaps. “Someone just bombed my fucking office yesterday, my mercenary father is on the loose, and now people are showing up in your classes! Why did I have to hear about this from Kit Fisto?!”

“I’m sorry I worried you,” says Plo. “Kit shouldn’t have called.” 

“No,  _ you _ should have called,” says Wolffe. “At any time. At all.” He’s vibrating on his feet, shifting back and forth, pacing restlessly. It makes Plo dizzy. “So  _ why didn’t you _ ?”

“It’s an open campus,” says Plo. “People are welcome to audit. I didn’t want you to get worked up over nothing.” He turns to gather his things so he has something to do with his hands. 

“And what were you going to do if it wasn’t nothing?” Wolffe demands, taking Plo by the arm and turning him back in a loose, unsteady grip. 

“It  _ was _ nothing -”

“You can’t even shout!” 

“I am not  _ helpless _ ,” Plo says quietly. An old anger rises in his throat. He takes a deep breath to center himself. It doesn’t seem to work. Wolffe can get under his skin like no one else. “I am not a  _ child _ to be coddled, or a thing to be wrapped in cotton wool. You of all people -”

“You can’t run, you can’t scream, and you won’t tell anyone when you need help,” says Wolffe. He advances on Plo, cornering him against the podium, looming over him. “So tell me what you’re going to do when Jango comes to gut you and leave your body for me to find on the doorstep. What are you going to do then?” 

“I am not afraid of him,” says Plo quietly. “And I’m not afraid of you. We’re not doing this again.”

“No,” Wolffe answers, “we’re not, because Stark was a fucking amateur and he still got the best of you before you had a fucking stroke. If you’re not scared of Jango, you’re a fool, because he is going to make you relive everything a thousand times worse. He’s going to string you up -”

“Stop,” says Plo, a tremble in his lip. He doesn’t know if it’s fear or hurt. “I want to go home.”

* * *

The ride back is smothered in tense silence, Wolffe white-knuckled at the wheel and Plo watching the landscape pass by. Plo makes a point of fishing his bag out of the trunk and going up the steps by himself, and he picks up a cushion and goes to the balcony without a word. Wolffe sees him out and vanishes to the community gym to blow off steam on the heavy bag. When he gets back, Plo is asleep on the couch, curled tightly into a ball, wrapped in four layers of blankets. He’s going to regret it when he wakes up, Wolffe knows. He’s going to polish off the Tylenol, and probably the Advll too, and it still won’t be enough to keep his pain under control. 

He tugs the blankets out of Plo’s grasp and stretches his legs out. Briefly, he considers moving Plo to the bed. His back would appreciate it, but he hates waking up somewhere he didn’t fall asleep, and Wolffe doesn’t want to anger him further. The best he can do is to pull out the weighted blanket from where they’d stored it in the closet and tuck it around Plo’s still form before he retreats to the bedroom. 

In the morning, Plo is awake and outside when Wolffe drags himself out to the kitchen. He’s in new clothes, leaning against the railing, listing to his good side while he stares across the street. There’s an untouched cup of tea on the counter next to a cooling bowl of porridge. As Wolffe stands there, the coffee machine kicks on and begins to brew. Plo’s always had an uncanny ability to guess when a fresh pot is needed and set the timer accordingly. Wolffe sighs and steps outside. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks, leaning against the door. Plo doesn’t answer. When Wolffe joins him at the railing, he tries to turns his face away. He doesn’t manage to fast enough, and Wolffe catches a glimpse of his drooping lip. His heart drops into his stomach. “How long?”

Plo shakes his head slowly. His fingers tighten on the metal. Wolffe sighs. “Will you let me take you to the hospital?”

“N- n-” Plo says, before finally forcing out, “No.” It comes out slow and slurred. 

“Plo -”

“ _ Better _ ,” Plo insists. His voice, already quiet, wavers. Cracks, like he’s trying not to cry. He allows Wolffe to insert himself and take his weight. His right arm shakes with effort when he goes to move it to Wolffe’s shoulder, and his foot drags as he shifts, more than can be accounted for by sleeping in an uncomfortable position. Wolffe wraps an arm around his waist so he won’t fall. It’s been a while, but the motion is ingrained in his memory. 

“You could be having another stroke,” he says quietly. “Please.”

“No,” Plo says. “I’m - better. Alrea-” His tongue refuses to make the right shape. He gives up in frustration. 

“How did you get out here?” Wolffe asks.

“Walked,” says Plo. Wolffe bites his tongue on the urge to scold him. He could have hurt himself, he could have hit his head if his leg gave out - gods, he could have fallen and spent hours lying on the concrete before Wolffe found him. He tightens his grip unconsciously. His breath hitches. 

The breeze ruffles Plo’s hair. Wolffe gives in to the impulse to run his fingers through the strands. Plo drops his head against Wolffe’s shoulder. His tears soak into Wolffe’s sleep shirt. 

“Please,” Wolffe whispers. “Please let’s go to the hospital. You can tell me I told you so after. Please let them help you. Let me - Please, Plo.” 

Plo cries for a minute longer before he mumbles into Wolffe’s chest, so quietly Wolffe has to strain to hear him. “‘M not helpless.”

“Never,” Wolffe swears. 

“‘M  _ not _ .” He pushes weakly against Wolffe. The difference between his right and left sides is stark. Wolffe holds tighter and waits. Finally, Plo gives in. 

* * *

When they leave the hospital several hours later, Plo is still weak on his right side, but his words come easier and he can shuffle along with help. He’d insisted on leaving the moment the scan results came back without a stroke, and nothing the doctors, nurses, or Wolffe said could convince him to stay. It wasn’t the first time stress brought his symptoms back, and he was sure he would be fine at home while he waited it out. 

He’s sullen the entire afternoon, unable to give his lecture or even grade papers, and he lies on top of the covers with a book on tape playing, just so he can have something to distract him from his mood. Wolffe, meanwhile, hovers restlessly by the door, having previously been evicted from Plo’s line of sight after fretting once too often. He’s only tolerated when he comes bearing tea, and only for as long as it takes to set the new cup on the tray and take the empty one away. His one attempt at helping Plo to the bathroom when all the fluid catches up to him is rebuffed, and Wolffe retreats to the kitchen. He tells himself he’s respecting Plo’s wishes. In truth, he can’t bear to see Plo struggle and be unable to help. 

They eat dinner separately, Plo picking at his vegetables while he sits by the window, Wolffe clearing his plate with curt efficiency, and then Plo takes an hour to do the dishes. Somehow, nothing breaks. He goes straight to bed afterwards, exhausted from the effort but unwilling to admit it, and he drifts off into a fitful sleep. Wolffe joins him after sundown, curling around him. It takes hours for him to fall asleep, and he does not rest well at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plo is an idiot. Don't be like Plo. If you think you're having a stroke, go get help immediately.


	8. Chapter 8

“How’s domestic life?” Mace asks, sounding as delighted as he ever does. Plo scowls and resists the urge to throw the phone at the wall. “I hear the Detective has taken you home.”

“I want to come back to work,” says Plo. 

“Denied. Next question,” says Mace.

“The Yinchorri case -”

“Giett can take care of it.” Mace says. Plo can see him waving his hand. “He’s familiar with the details. And the last thing we need is a mistrial because someone tries to blow up the courthouse with you in it. Don’t bother flipping me the bird, Plo.”

Plo curls his middle finger back into his clenched fist. “I need something to do, Mace. If I knew you were going to make me sit around doing nothing all day I would have taken that consulting job back home.”

“As if,” Mace scoffs. “You’d have died of boredom.” 

He isn’t wrong. Unfortunately, Plo is sure he’ll be dead of boredom anyway within the week, or of stress. Every time he stops, he sees fire and breaking glass and his chest feels like it’s going to explode, never mind what seeing the Detective’s face does for his guilt. Sitting still and waiting has never been his strong point. 

“I’m not even allowed to stand by the window,” he complains. “The window, Mace. I’m stuck in a house with two strangers I wouldn’t know from the next man on the street, and I’m being watched every moment of the day and probably while I’m sleeping too, and - oh gods, I think I’m going to throw up.”

He curls over the toilet. Nothing comes up. He closes his eyes anyway, falling backwards into his heels, his head thumping against the wall. Mace’s voice over the speakers is tinny and faint.

“Put the phone by your face, Plo, and listen to me -“

“I’m fine,” Plo mumbles. Maybe if he splashes some water on his face the nausea will go away. On the other hand, that would require standing up to get to the sink, and he’s not sure he won’t syncopize if he does. 

“You’re having a stress reaction,” Mace says flatly. “Which is normal for someone in your situation. The second this is over I’m sending you to therapy. You just have to keep yourself in one piece until then. You hear me?”

Plo moans quietly. “I just want my life back.”

“I know,” says Mace. “And you will.”

Outside, there’s some mumblings from the detectives Fett. Plo drags himself to his feet and examines himself in the mirror. At least he hasn’t obviously been crying. He doesn’t think he could stand the pitying looks. 

“I just want my life back,” he repeats.

“All things pass,” says Mace. 

“Do you mean Stark, or normalcy?” Plo asks, only half-joking. 

“Call me again tonight,” says Mace. “Or anytime you need to talk. I mean it, Plo.”

He tidies himself up and goes back out into the awkward silence. Cody eats quickly and heads out, leaving them alone at the table. Wolffe has changed tactics, staring determinedly at his phone and scrolling, blank-faced. Plo shivers. To cover the motion, he snatches up Cody’s mug and plate and takes them to the sink, turning on the water and scrubbing.

“What are you doing?” Wolffe says, looking up. “We have a dishwasher.”

Plo looks down. There are a lot of plates and forks. “That you aren’t using. I might as well be -” A flash of sunlight catches him from a passing car. He flinches. “-useful,” he finishes lamely. He feels Wolffe’s eyes on him for a very long minute.

“Suit yourself,” he finally says. He sounds suspicious. He doesn’t get up to act on it. Good. 

Plo opens up the dishwasher and slots the clean dishes in one by one, arranging plates in neat rows and silverware in the bin on the bottom rack. The hot water is soothing even as it makes his skin go prune-y. Slowly the dishes vanish; he even takes Wolffe’s plate from him to add to his collection. When those are done he scrubs down the sink too, and finally he feels a little more like himself again. He goes back to the living room, where Wolffe is hunched over the table working on something. 

“Hand cream,” says Wolffe, and tosses something at Plo. It smacks into his chest. He barely catches it before it falls to the ground. “Aunt Arla left it last time she was here. She gardens.” He looks up. “Don’t touch anything in the yard, by the way. It’s all poisonous.”

“Thanks,” says Plo. The cream doesn’t smell like much of anything but it feels good on his skin, especially where it’s trying to crack. 

* * *

Wolffe is one of those people who eat lunch, so Plo finds himself staring at a sandwich at noon with a gruff order to eat. He carefully picks out the onions while he leafs through a furniture catalog from five years ago. It was that or the fishing magazine he’d already read twice. When he’s eaten as much of the sandwich as he can stomach, he slips into the kitchen again to wash his plate, and then for lack of anything else to do, he disassembles the burners on the stove for a scrubbing and cleans out the drippings pans too. By then, the noise has attracted Wolffe’s attention.

“What the hell, Counselor?” he asks, watching while Plo finishes wrapping the last pan in foil. 

“What else am I supposed to do?” Plo asks, jamming the burners back into place. The range looks very new. “You have two magazines.”

“Watch TV. Put on a movie. Catch up on sleep or something,” says Wolffe. “You’re a smart man.” He disappears again. Plo stares after him. As he turns, Plo gets a glimpse of the cut on his face. He sucks in a breath and goes to find a broom, a tremor in his hands. 


	9. Chapter 9

It takes 3 days for Plo to get back to his normal state of function, though his equilibrium stays disturbed longer. He sleeps quietly as he always has but he looks less rested as time passes, and his pride keeps him from telling Wolffe anything about it. Still, Wolffe watches him like a hawk until he’s back to walking with a cane and scribbling barely legible notes in the margins of his students’ papers. In the morning, he’s outside with tea before Wolffe is awake, and even with his meditation, it’s not enough to hide his exhaustion.

On the fourth night, Wolffe wakes just as Plo is carefully untangling himself from his grasp. He’s muttering to himself under his breath as he works, tugging sweat-damp sheets from around his legs to give himself room to slide out from under Wolffe’s arms. Wolffe shifts, and Plo sighs. 

“Go back to sleep,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry for waking you.” He tries to tuck the covers around Wolffe, who shrugs them off and leans up for a better view.

“What’s wrong?” In the dark, it’s harder to tell, but Plo’s light eyes seem almost dull. 

“I’m fine. Just getting some tea,” says Plo. He pushes himself up, swings his legs over the side. Wolffe watches him disappear into the hall, debating whether to follow. Then there’s the sound of breaking glass and muffled swearing, and he gets out of bed too. By the time he rounds the corner, Plo is already sweeping up the pieces, bitter frustration twisting his features into a scowl. He looks up at Wolffe’s arrival and sighs. Wolffe goes over and takes the broom and dustpan from him. 

“I think it counts as addiction if you have cravings in the middle of the night,” he says, sweeping up the last few fragments and binning them.

“You would know,” says Plo.

“I haven’t smoked in years,” says Wolffe.

“You would’ve started again if I wasn’t refusing to kiss you,” says Plo. He picks out another mug and sets it on the counter next to the water heater.

“Well, the things we do for love,” says Wolffe absently. Plo tenses. “Nightmares?” he asks, as if he hadn’t noticed. 

“The usual,” Plo admits after a moment. The smell of mint blooms in the air as the hot water dispenses. He wraps his hands around the mug and breathes in the steam. When he walks to the balcony window, he favors his right leg. “Ten years and nothing’s changed. He knew how to leave a mark, I’ll give him that.” 

Wolffe joins him, wrapping his arms around Plo’s waist from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder as they look out into the dark. Wolffe snorts. Plo’s free hand drifts down to cover his, and their fingers lace together. It takes another twenty minutes of silence before Plo speaks up.

“Every time I think I’ve recovered,” he says, and then stops. Recrudescence is familiar to him, but it stings like the first time every time, without fail. “I resent it. I resent being brought low again and again. Still - I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says. Wolffe catches his eye in their reflection.

“I think I would’ve done the same thing,” he admits. “If I thought I could keep you from worrying.” He presses his lips to the junction of Plo’s neck and shoulder. “I crossed a line. I was scared, and I let it get the best of me. Can you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing you could do to me that I couldn’t forgive in time,” says Plo. At Wolffe’s flinch, he adds, “You aren’t capable of true malice, Wolffe. Fear, anger, impulsivity, yes - but not malice. You’re a good man at heart.”

“Yours is too big, Plo.You can’t take on all the problems in the world. You have to leave something for yourself.” Wolffe squeezes Plo lightly. They sway lightly to a tune neither of them can hear. 

“It hurts too much if I stop to think,” says Plo.

Wolffe doesn’t ask what he means. He doesn’t need to. Plo is open, the way Wolffe is not. He just has to wait. 

“I couldn’t breathe,” says Plo. His hands rub absently at his neck. The lines around his eyes tighten. “And I know there’s nothing wrong, but there wasn’t any air and I was there again. Dying.” 

“Plo.”

“Before, ah - before you and the cavalry arrived, he said some things. Things I haven’t been able to unhear. Things I can’t repeat, not to anyone.”

“Not even to your therapist?” Wolffe asks. 

“No,” Plo says. “Not even then.” He twists in Wolffe’s grasp until he can press his forehead into Wolffe’s shoulder. Wolffe takes the mug from him and sets it aside where it won’t spill on either of them. “I’m tired, Wolffe.”

“I know.”

“Not-“

“I know,” Wolffe repeats. “Will you let me take you to bed anyway?”

Plo makes a mumbled assent, and Wolffe bends to pick him up. Plo rubs his eyes. “I have a headache.”

Wolffe deposits him in their bed and goes back for the tea and Advil. He sits at the head of the bed, and Plo rests his head on his thigh, a hand curled around his knee as Wolffe runs his fingers through his hair in slow strokes. Neither of them sleep soon. 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by _Disorder in the Court: Great Fractured Moments in Courtroom_ , from which Wolffe's sense of humor on the stand is taken. 
> 
> Let's see where this goes. 
> 
> Come yell at me at ccinagalaxyfaraway.tumblr.com


End file.
